


Ribbon Ties

by Metallic_Sweet



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Class Issues, Classic Mode Mechanics (Fire Emblem), Fire Emblem Skill Acquisition Mechanics, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Blue Lions Route, Gen, Hair Washing, Heavy Drinking, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Plague, Tea, Very Complicated Nightclothes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-07
Updated: 2019-09-07
Packaged: 2020-10-12 03:20:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20557373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Metallic_Sweet/pseuds/Metallic_Sweet
Summary: In a postwar and plague-ravaged Enbarr, Ferdinand rediscovers Fire.Related toNo More Monstersbut may be read stand alone.





	Ribbon Ties

The first winter after the end of the war is difficult. 

The harvest in most parts of Fódlan was poor and the other parts nonexistent. The former Adrestrian Empire is hit the hardest, its resources gutted throughout the harvest season in the climax of the war effort. Ferdinand never makes it back to Aegir from Enbarr, instead becoming embroiled in matters of the state. Brigid refuses to come to the table to negotiate new trade terms, and another war narrowly prevented by an outbreak of plague in Brigid and that Byleth and Flayn to which personally attend. 

The worst part, as Ferdinand discovers himself seemingly immune to the plague, is the majority of Adrestian mages were killed during the war. The rest are hard-hit by the plague. Ferdinand does not understand why, even after he listens to Manuela’s explanations of Linhardt and Hanneman’s theories. A memorable meeting in the converted war room of the palace ends with Ferdinand in barely managed hysteria. Not because of the plague or anyone’s actions but because of his frustration with himself. 

“I’m not smart,” he whispers even as Cyril brews him a pot of chamomile tea. “I’m so sorry. I don’t get it.” 

“I don’t get it either,” Cyril says, which doesn’t make Ferdinand feel better. 

His scholastic limitations are not, however, what makes the lack of mages terrible for Ferdinand on a personal level. Because Hevring is one of the hardest hit regions, Linhardt is not able to send reinforcements to Enbarr. Count Varley is taken early in the plague, and Bernadetta is not well enough to spare the handful of mages at her disposal. Ferdinand finds himself using Fire and even Bolganone to burn piles of plague victims and their contaminated belongings in the streets of Enbarr. He does not excel at magic, but he is not without talent. 

This is not the first time he has had to do this, but it is somehow more horrifying without the distraction of a war. 

By the time Dedue, Dimitri, and Byleth arrive with tinctures made of uncontaminated water from Fhirdiad, it has been nearly two months since the plague took hold of Enbarr. Ferdinand is aware that he is a complete mess as he receives them at the palace gates. From the way they all have a double-take of his appearance before immediately looking to Cyril, Ferdinand senses it was worse than he perceived. 

“Ferdinand,” Dimitri says, and it isn’t so much that he recovers first than he lacks the most compulsion to social niceties, “you look like you could use a stiff drink.” 

They end up in Ferdinand’s reception room in the Prime Minister’s quarters after covering all the immediate issues in the crisis room. Ferdinand sits on his reception couch while Dimitri pours two generous glasses from some bottle he had brought. Apparently, this bottle was not supposed to be part of their convoy. Dedue had scowled over it before Dimitri pulled him aside with a mullish expression. Ferdinand retreated into his dressing chamber from whatever argument was brewing. When he came back out, Dedue had already stepped out. Dimitri was puttering around, repurposing Ferdinand’s teaware. 

“Have you had poitín before?” 

“No,” Ferdinand says, feeling rather shaky. “Is it quite strong? I haven’t eaten since this morning.” 

“It is strong,” Dimitri says, peering at the raised bead pattern of Ferdinand’s current favourite teacups before holding one out. “Dedue will be back in a bit with some food.” 

Ferdinand nods. They toast each other somewhat unevenly, a part of Ferdinand off-balance using his tea set like this. Dimitri takes a long sip, looking into the middle distance. Ferdinand takes a mouthful and has to draw his cup back from his lips as he blinks rapidly on the heavy burn. 

“O_h_,” he croaks as Dimitri eyes him with faint amusement. “I don’t think I can drink all of this.” 

“You don’t have to,” Dimitri says as the reception door opens again with Dedue and a tray of hand sandwiches and a pot of hot water. “Dedue, are you joining us?” 

Dedue looks at Dimitri. It appears whatever they were arguing about has not been resolved, but Dedue is not saying anything unless Dimitri does. Ferdinand, with a sudden spike of self-preservation, takes a fortifying sip of his drink.

“Dedue,” he says; Dedue and Dimitri look at him in faint surprise as he sets his cup down and stands up. “Will you join us? I would like to enjoy your company before work occupies us again.” 

Dimitri smiles. The closest to his old expressions that Ferdinand used to see flashes of on the training grounds back in their Academy days. Dedue seems to calm, too, partially at the sight of that smile. He takes the chair adjacent to Dimitri as Ferdinand moves to the cellarette. He unlatches it and, after a moment of consideration, pulls out a box of dried whole chamomile and his guilty pleasure: 

“Fernet,” he says, handing the chamomile to Dedue and the bottle to Dimitri. “I shouldn’t like it as much as I do.” 

Dimitri pulls the cork out of the top and inhales. He blinks a couple of times before his mouth splits into a grin. Ferdinand accepts the chamomile back from Dedue as Dimitri passes the bottle to him. Ferdinand measure out a generous scoop of the flowers to the pot, occupying his hands with the ritual of tea. 

“It was my mother’s pleasure,” he says, placing the top back on the pot. 

“Your mother?” Dedue asks as Ferdinand sits back down.

He nods. The hand sandwiches look picture perfect which means that Dedue made them; none of the experienced kitchen staff have survived both the war and the plague. Ferdinand helps himself to one filled with what looks like mint and a soft cheese. 

“She was a Bergliez,” he says, setting the sandwich on his plate and picking up his cup still mostly full of poitín; he takes a short sip before continuing. “No Crest, but I believe my father married her with a faint hope I might end up with two as a few generations back the Bergliez had a marriage with a Varley.”

Dimitri makes a thoughtful noise. Ferdinand looks up to see that he’s considering the sandwiches as well. Likely looking for whichever has the most cheese. Dedue is still studying the Fernet bottle, but his eyebrows are drawn slightly together. 

“So Bernadetta and you are distantly related,” Dimitri says, looking up as he speaks. 

Ferdinand nods. He settles his cup on the saucer. Takes a bite out of his sandwich. Chews. Swallows. 

“I am not particularly interested in Crestology, but one doesn’t spend time around Linhardt or Hanneman without absorbing some of it,” he says, looking at the bite he took out of his sandwich with more interest than it requires. “I wouldn’t be surprised if my father consulted Hanneman or someone in that circle prior to approaching the former Count Bergliez. The marriage contract is exceptionally long, since Rhea herself got involved. I’m sure there are drafts in the archbishop office.” 

“Aegir, Bergliez, and Varley,” Dedue says as Ferdinand puts the rest of the sandwich in his mouth. “Indech and Cichol.” 

Ferdinand nods. He accepts the bottle back from Dimitri, sets it on the reception table, and goes through the motions of pouring the tea. He understands that Dimitri and Dedue are letting him do this because they know tea service is his personal pleasure. Ferdinand likes to think that he is good enough a host that they enjoy it to a certain extent, too. 

“It is not uncommon to marry for a Crest,” Ferdinand says, picking up his chamomile teacup; Dimitri and Dedue have sat with him enough for tea to understand they should as well. “But marrying for multiple Crests… Well, we should speak of more pleasant things.”

The conversation meanders. The plague was not as harsh in Faerghus due to a very mild summer heading towards a harsh winter. Dedue speaks at length about repairs to Fhirdiad’s greenhouses and the poor harvest. The situation is not as dire as in the former Empire because Dedue has had success with a trade agreement with the reformed guilds in Duscar, but making ends meet will keep his hands full administratively for a while yet. Dimitri speaks about his thoughts on expanding the apprenticeship and squire system to accommodate more commoners. His mind, however, is clearly troubled and he answers the question Ferdinand poses about cost with what sounds like the introduction to an educational treatise before he catches himself.

“Sorry,” he says, clearly embarrassed by monopolising the conversation. 

Ferdinand shakes his head, although he feels faintly shellshocked. Dedue, who is chewing the last ham sandwich, eyes Dimitri with a strange mixture of mild apprehension and pleased surprise. Ferdinand wonders if this is part of what Dimitri thinks about when he looks into nothing.

“We should discuss this as an order of business,” he says, and Dedue smiles at him in perhaps the warmest expression he’s ever offered Ferdinand as Dimitri blinks in surprise. “It somewhat goes out of my expertise, but I am certain if we write up a summary to share with interested parties, we may begin useful discussions.”

“Ah,” Dimitri says, clearly still embarrassed. 

They don’t finish tea. Somehow it doesn’t feel appropriate for their moods. Dimitri has been much more on point with the poitín. Ferdinand does a table trick to shuffle the contents of the tea tray, functionally disappearing the empty sandwich plate with the used teapot, cups, and saucers. He returns to the cellarette, selects the short glasses for liquors, pours three glasses of Fernet. 

Dimitri and Dedue stand as he brings the glasses over. They each take one, toast, and throw the liquid back after Dimitri makes a short bark of a word that Ferdinand doesn’t recognize. 

“Aah,” Ferdinand sighs in enjoyment after swallowing.

“Auk,” Dedue coughs.

“I like this,” Dimitri says, already looking to where Ferdinand had set the bottle. 

They do a couple of rounds before a knock on the door interrupts Ferdinand in pouring their fourth. Dimitri has himself slung half on Dedue. He pulls away after nodding to Ferdinand, who calls:

“Enter!” 

It’s Byleth and Cyril. They both look around the room. Cyril frowns at Ferdinand who still has the Fernet in hand. Byleth is, as usual, impossible to read. Dimitri leans back against Dedue, who shifts and wraps his arm around Dimitri’s waist.

“Professor, Cyril!” Ferdinand says, feeling very cheered. “Care to join us?”

Byleth raises an eyebrow. Cyril shakes his head, stepping towards the cellarette. 

“I’ll have one,” Byleth says, stepping forward and eyeing the state of the table. “What exactly is this?”

“Fernet,” Dimitri says, and he grins broadly as he lifts his empty glass for Byleth’s observation. “Ferdinand’s got these special glasses for it.” 

“The best way to drink Fernet,” Ferdinand says because it is.

“Hmm,” Byleth says, and Ferdinand wonders when the professor started using verbal leads, “I think I’ll stick to one.” 

Ferdinand turns only to find Cyril has already brought over a fourth glass. He shakes his head again, but there’s a faint look of amusement to the quirk of his lips. 

“Don’t thank me,” he says because Ferdinand is already opening his mouth. “I’m supposed to be helping you.” 

“Well, still, thank you,” Ferdinand says, a little put out.

He turns back. Dedue looks at him with a more openly amused expression. Dimitri is distracted by his view of the reception room’s bookshelves, specifically the second shelf from the top that Ferdinand has been shoving magical treatises and grimoires. Byleth accepts the new glass, watching Ferdinand pour with a raised eyebrow. 

“Is there a special way to drink this?” 

“All at once,” Ferdinand says as Dimitri swings himself around, holding out his glass with a broad grin. 

“We should spar,” Dimitri says as Ferdinand fills his and then Dedue’s glasses. “It has been a long time since I’ve sparred with you.” 

“It has,” Ferdinand says after a moment of consideration while he fills Dedue’s and Byleth’s glasses. “Was it back at the Academy?” 

Dimitri pauses. Blinks. Ferdinand sets the bottle down. 

“It must be,” Dimitri says, a little shocked as they all raise their glasses. “House versus House Lance Tournament during the Verdant Rain Moon.” 

“Oh!” Ferdinand exclaims before laughing. “Yes, that was just before I joined Blue Lions. I was still feeling that last blow when I joined, you know.” 

Dimitri laughs, too. They toast, Dedue and Byleth slightly behind. Ferdinand throws back his drink, grinning when he hears Byleth choke briefly. When he looks back, Cyril has already presented a tray to take the glasses. Byleth coughs a couple of times, blinking hard as they set their glasses on the tray. 

“Thank you,” Byleth croaks. “I think I’ll stick to food in the future.”

“This is very pleasant,” Dedue says with a small smile; he hasn’t taken his hand off of Dimitri’s waist. “But we should go to bed.” 

“We should?” Dimitri asks, quite surprised. “I thought we were going to do Ferdinand’s hair.” 

“What?” Ferdinand asks, very smartly. 

Dedue’s lips twitch. Dimitri and Byleth both look at him with identical amusement. Cyril steps away, rolling his eyes. 

Ferdinand, abruptly, senses he is in the lion’s den. 

The palace baths are still, even three months out from the end of the war, disgusting. 

The reality of Hubert’s work lingers in stains on the ceiling and broken fixtures. It still stinks of the rotten bodies that no one had realised were there until the smell escaped the room to alert everyone to their decomposition. Ferdinand had not personally seen the baths in their worst state due to injuries in the final battle, but he had assisted in organising the clean up. Repairing the baths had fallen onto the back burner once the plague set in and more pressing concerns took precedence. 

This is how Ferdinand ends up nude in the royal chamber’s tub with Dedue, Dimitri draped over the side and Byleth sitting with a book at the main door. They had offered to let him keep his small clothes, but Ferdinand had been of the opinion it would make the situation weird. 

“I mean,” Ferdinand said, aware through the alcohol fog that he sounded faintly hysterical, “you saw me naked that one time we went to deal with the Western Church and I nearly, uh, drowned in the sand.”

“Oh, yeah,” Dimitri sighed with a dreamy smile on his face like it was the best memory of his life. 

_Do you fancy me?_ Ferdinand nearly asked but was able to stop himself because of the abrupt realisation that if he actually got an answer to the question, he would become completely hysterical. 

The fact of the matter is that, between the war, the end of the war, the plague, and cleaning up the war and plague, Ferdinand has spent most of his hours both awake and constantly on edge. Ever since Linhardt went back to Hevring and the rest of the Blue Lions departed home to Faerghus, it has only been him and Cyril in the Enbarr palace. Cyril stayed at first because Rhea, discovered emaciated and barely functional in the dungeons, was not able to travel. But after she left with Catherine, Cyril had stayed behind because the plague was reaching new heights and Ferdinand was the only functioning magic user besides Manuela, who had her hands full with the overrun clinic in town. 

“You need support, too,” Cyril said when he presented himself to Ferdinand on the morning of Rhea and Catherine’s departure. “Rhea has already granted my leave of her service.” 

“I just wish,” Ferdinand had said because that morning he was unfortunately already into his hysteria after waking to see a pile of bodies out his bedroom window, “that I knew why I am not sick. If Hubert wasn’t dead, I know he would figure it out.” 

Cyril was silent for a long moment. He as well as Rhea and Catherine had all fought off a lighter version of the plague, treated by Manuela early in the outbreak. They were well with a few days rest. Ferdinand has moved bodies riddled with open sores and gangrened boils. Breathed the festering air of homes. Drunk water later found to be contaminated. He was left standing as nearly half of Enbarr’s population died. 

He thought more and more about Hubert and the piles of sacrifices in the palace baths towards Edelgard’s failed glory. 

“That may be true,” Cyril said, and he stepped forward to take the untouched breakfast tray from Ferdinand’s desk, “but then all of us would be dead, so I do not think it is a fair comparison.” 

This is, in a nutshell, why Ferdinand is currently being bathed by his king and Dedue in the royal chambers of Enbarr. He could offer to wash himself, but then Dedue would hold him still so Dimitri can do it. Ferdinand would rather Dimitri punch him out. There is no one who matches the two of them in strength and determination. 

Dedue holds out a handful of soap suds to Dimitri who tips a few drops of some sort of oil into the palm. It smells very nice, although not a flower or root that Ferdinand recognises. 

“When,” Dedue asks, “was the last time you washed your hair?”

Ferdinand weighs the truthfulness of his answer against his sense of self-preservation. Dimitri hates being lied to. Ferdinand would like to be punched out if he becomes hysterical but not for dishonesty.

“I always try to wash it after…” He waves his hands uselessly before putting them back under the water. “Well. Bodies. Smell bad. When burning.”

“Ah,” Dedue says, very understanding; he puts his hands around the back of Ferdinand’s skull, fingertips pressing firmly and pleasantly on the curve towards the crown. “When was the last time you oiled it?”

“Um,” is all Ferdinand has to say. 

He never meant to grow his hair like this. He really has no idea how to take care of it, but he also can’t seem to bring himself to cut it. In the summer, it’s extremely hot, but he likes the weight. It makes him feel reassured somehow. He isn’t particularly good with keeping up the brushing since it’s too much for a comb, and he has no idea how to style it since he had short hair up until the war. He is aware he looks either like a very furry dog on a good day or, more often, like a ginger version of some pack animals that regularly terrorise the countryside. 

Ferdinand knows he should take better care of his hair. Himself. It hasn’t been a priority. The war, the clean up, the plague, more clean up. What private time he has, he spends thinking about useless what ifs. What if he had been able to talk Edelgard down. What if he could have reached Hubert. He goes to bed either so exhausted he falls asleep before making it fully to bed or without a complete sense of how he got there. He is fairly sure that Cyril has been supplementing some of his evening wine with Manuela’s calming tinctures.

Dedue, very gently, begins to work his fingers through Ferdinand’s hair. It is careful and sure and Ferdinand, if he wasn’t half-drunk and teetering between heartache and hysteria, could cry in gratefulness. 

_Teach me how to do this,_ Ferdinand wants to say. 

_Do you do this for Dimitri?_ he wonders. 

_No one ever did this for me,_ he wants to confess so suddenly it stills any words on his tongue. _No one knew how to be good to each other in the Adrestian Empire._

He doesn’t lie to himself. That’s the worst part. If Ferdinand could lie to himself, he knows his life would be easier. He would have just moseyed along, either down Edelgard’s path or down another, ignoble path plotted out by his father. He would have been married by now, probably to Bernadetta or another noble lady likely from the Alliance. He might even have children. Just this knowledge makes the fragile thing inside of his chest threaten to crack open and shriek. 

“Ferdinand.” 

He blinks. Turns slightly to look at Dimitri who is working oil into the ends of Ferdinand’s hair. He has taken his eyepatch off to avoid getting it wet. The empty socket is unsettling, but Ferdinand has seen far worse.

“You should have sent a messenger for mages,” Dimitri says, kindly and without reprimand. “We have a school of sorcery in Fhirdiad.” 

Dedue begins untangling a knot at the base of Ferdinand’s skull. Ferdinand lets his gaze drop from Dimitri back into his lap. His hands and thighs beneath the water. The scar tissue that mottles his stomach. He doesn’t remember when it happened, but he took an axe through his armour in the third year of the war. The healing had been messy and long, and he hadn’t been able to ride for eight months. 

For the four months Ferdinand was out of commission, Linhardt bought silver gauntlets. He wore them through the end of the war. Ferdinand never saw him use them, but Linhardt kept them clean and in good repair. Before he left for home, he gifted them to Cyril. He gave his staff to Ferdinand, unable to look either of them in the eye.

Cyril has put away his weaponry. All of his armour and his mail. He even sent his personal ax back with Rhea. He dresses as he once did as a servant at Garreg Mach, standing tall in his simple tunic and trousers. He has no intention to ever pick up a weapon again. 

Ferdinand has not let go of his armour. He carries the Spear of Assal and Linhardt’s staff, even though he isn’t confident with using either. He has to. It’s like his hair: he needs the weight. He wore his armour down to the vambraces every day for the past six years. Seteth, before he and Flayn retreated from society, entrusted the Spear to him. Carrying his weapons, wearing his armour: 

It reminds him that he is useful. That he is, despite himself, good enough that people more skilled and intelligent than him trust him to do right. 

“I know what you’re trying to say,” he says, lifting his right hand slightly to pop a bubble moving by on the surface of the water. “I would have sent a messenger, but I know that Cordelia put to death many of Fhirdiad’s mages and all the instructors who didn’t turn. We have half the library of the school. Here. In Hubert’s room.” 

Dimitri is quiet. He was looking at Ferdinand’s bookcase. Dedue moves into a clump of knots, tighter and smaller and more numerous in the tangle of hair that falls just below Ferdinand’s neck.

By the door, Byleth turns a page. 

“Ferdinand,” Dimitri says, firmly but not unkindly, “you do not bear the sins of war alone.”

It is true. Dimitri knows this better than anyone. He knows it in ways that frighten Ferdinand. In ways that are monstrous and evil and very much a part of Dimitri’s humanity. If Ferdinand was a simpler man, he wouldn’t be able to acknowledge the violence. Not because he wouldn’t recognise it, but because Ferdinand does. Knowing that he is grateful for Dimitri’s brutality, even moments when he understood it: 

It hurts to hear his King say this aloud.

Ferdinand grew up in a world of artificiality. Pomp and circumstance, a comedy of manners acted out beside the tragedy of political expediency. To gain power, to maintain it: there must be losers. Commoners and nobles are the same as everyone can be everyone else’s pawn. 

Ferdinand disagreed with his father specifically because he understood this. 

Dedue pours some water over the top of Ferdinand’s head. Uses his other hand to prevent any from falling over Ferdinand’s face. The water ripples with the fall. Ferdinand blinks. Watches his distorted reflection. 

“I mean—” he starts before pausing and starting again. “I do feel responsible. For, for Hubert, and Dorothea, I suppose. Before I joined Blue Lions, I was close to them. More than I was to Linhardt. I learned a lot about life from Dorothea. And Hubert…” 

He remembers the taste of Hubert’s coffee. The way his wrists would tilt as he poured them both cups from the tall specialty pot. The way he would hide his smile at Ferdinand’s enjoyment by tilting his head away from the light. Hubert never took pleasure in anything that wasn’t Edelgard’s will, but Ferdinand had imagined he did enjoy coffee. Not in the way Ferdinand enjoyed tea, but he treated the beans and the drink with a level of respect nothing else received aside from Edelgard. Coffee was his sole indulgence. 

Ferdinand cannot drink coffee anymore. 

“Hubert taught me magic,” he says, and he cannot see his reflection; he cannot see through the water; the tangles in his hair hurt. “We were... playing. I could make Fire, and it wasn’t poisonous like, like Hubert’s, so we—we thought it’d be fun. Making tea and, and coffee. It’s so stupid. We were going to, for Edelgard, her birthday…

“I wonder,” and he is crying, and he is laughing, and he hurts because he knows Hubert’s smiles were sincere as they planned, guiding each other’s hands, naïve and childish and innocent, “am I a fool? I still don’t hate him, or Edelgard, or anyone. Even after… after killing them. I don’t hate them.

“I love them.”

He does. Still. Even after Hubert tried to impale him in black flames. Even after Dorothea screamed Thoron in his face. Even after they killed and pillaged and ravaged and gave over their bodies to achieve greater power. He loves them because he knew them. And he fought them with all he had because he knew, too, what they had become. 

It is different from the love he has for the people in this room. Those he fought beside and will protect with his life. It is an older love, from a younger version of himself that he gave freely and without restraint. He will always love Hubert and Dorothea and Edelgard and all of the Black Eagles because, for those strange and glorious Academy days, they were his friends. 

Softly, Dedue is running his fingers over Ferdinand’s scalp, through Ferdinand’s hair. Free of tangles and carefully oiled, his hair falls to his mid-back. Long enough to cover the worst of the ballistics scarring across his shoulders. Dimitri is still working oil into the ends of his hair. His hands are probably brushing over the scar tissue. Ferdinand hasn’t told anyone, but he doesn’t have much feeling through the scars there or on his abdomen. 

There are things that cannot be fixed. 

Dedue and Dimitri help him out of the bath. Ferdinand lets them towel him off, although a part of his mind reminds him incessantly that, as the lowest ranking member in the room, he should not allow it. Byleth joins them to help Ferdinand dress, since none of them are particularly familiar with Adrestrian nightclothes. 

“Why are there so any parts,” Dimitri mutters, concentrating on drying Ferdinand’s hair after baulking at the delicateness of the sleeves’ ribbon ties.

“These are reused from court dress,” Ferdinand says, and the banality of the conversation is oddly soothing. “I don’t actually know where Cyril found most of this.” 

“Better not to ask,” Dedue says, which is very astute. 

They all walk with Ferdinand to his rooms. Through the reception to the bedroom. Cyril has already turned down the bed and, based on the darkness out the window and how low the night candle is, has likely gone to bed. Ferdinand stands for a long moment by the window as he braids his hair loosely, conscious of being watched. 

“Tomorrow’s agenda—”

“I will have it delivered,” Dimitri says; he smiles slightly when Ferdinand looks to him. “We plan to stay for a week. We will sort out as much as we can during this time.” 

“Yes,” Ferdinand says, and he bows low; it makes his head spin a bit. “Thank you,” he says to the floor.

“Thank you,” Dimitri says, and Ferdinand hears them shifting back towards the door. “Rest well.”

“All of you, too,” Ferdinand says, straightening very slowly. 

By the time he is upright, the bedroom door has already been shut behind them. Ferdinand stands for a long moment more. He looks at the candle stub. The low burning flame. 

He breathes in. Watches the flame shrink. Out. Watches it flare. 

In Hubert’s room in Garreg Mach:

“Careful,” Hubert says. 

Ferdinand blinks. Looks up. His Fire has lit the hearth, a little brighter than usual. The kettle full of water is still securely on the makeshift stand. 

Hubert had taken a step forward. His hands are slightly lifted. Fingers extended. Looking up at him, Ferdinand can see that his pupils are wider than usual. 

Ferdinand grins. 

“Hubert,” he says, slightly teasing, “I told you I’ve been practicing! Besides, I’m past burning myself thanks to you.” 

Hubert snorts. Looks away unconsciously before he catches himself. His hands relax as he looks back and finds Ferdinand smiling. 

“So that flare was for show,” he says, teasing even in his deadpan tone. “I should have known.” 

“A true noble doesn’t show off,” Ferdinand huffs before grinning. “I can’t help that I have a flashy teacher.” 

“Flashy?” Hubert scoffs as Ferdinand laughs. 

Hubert does not laugh, but he cannot hide his smile from the brightly lit room. 

Carefully, Ferdinand picks up the candle snuffer. He puts the fire out. Sets the snuffer on the nightstand. Removes his shoes and climbs into bed. 

Grabbing his pillow, Ferdinand wraps his arms around it and curls on his side. 

He breathes in. Out. 

In the morning, he will take the agenda. Put on his armour and shoulder his spear and staff. He will meet with Dimitri, Dedue, and Byleth. They will work together to combat the plague. The impending famine. The war, its aftermath, the living, the dead. 

There are things that cannot be fixed. 

Ferdinand, along with the living, will keep moving ahead.

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to connect with me on Twitter [@Metallic_Sweet](https://twitter.com/Metallic_Sweet)!


End file.
